


Unfold

by gingerteaandsympathy



Series: Unexpected [2]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: ...yeah, F/M, Kid Fic, his ex is actually p cool, remember that kid i mentioned in the last fic?, there is no woman bashing in this fic btw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 18:16:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20430326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerteaandsympathy/pseuds/gingerteaandsympathy
Summary: in which Rose Tyler has a very strange and enlightening day.





	Unfold

**Author's Note:**

> (this fic has been edited as of 3/16/20.)
> 
> well, guys, here's more tucker and rose content, because apparently... i just can't let go. we'll see what comes after this one, because my brain is still living in tucker and rose fantasyland. in the meantime, enjoy a bit of confused!rose, dad!tucker, a cute kiddo, and an original character that i definitely did NOT base on marion cotillard, no sir.
> 
> as usual, please forgive the mistakes. i'm sure there are many, and i hope you enjoy anyway.

It's been a few days, and she's still seeing Tucker's face everywhere she goes. In the papers, on telly. Everywhere except her bar.

Every time someone—a patron, a stranger in a shop, a voice on the radio—mentions his name, she can't help but search the room for him. But it's an illogical impulse; she knows he's not there. He's not come back, and he's probably not looking for her.

In fact, he's probably not even near this part of town anymore. The papers have hounded him through each second of his unexpected early retirement, speculating each time he goes out for lunch, publishing photos when he meets a famous name at a coffee shop. She imagines he tends to avoid this district now, for risk of his "slumming it" ending up in the papers. It makes sense, from a publicity perspective.

She can see the headlines. “Drowning His Sorrows: Malcolm Tucker Takes Up with Local Barmaid,” maybe. Or the more concise “Tucker’s Fucked, and So Is Britain.” Appropriate for the foul-mouthed former enforcer. But the options are basically limitless.

The entire country has its eye on him. Everyone wants to know: Is Malcolm Tucker trying to get back into the game? What's next for the famous Spin Doctor? 

It's disgusting, and she hates the strange, sinking feeling in her gut every time she sees a badly-framed paparazzi shot of Tucker in that big, black overcoat, glaring at the cameras like they're a hive of buzzing wasps he wants to bollock until they scatter. But in a way, Rose is grateful. It's her only way of keeping tabs on him, making sure he's still alive. After all, he has her number—she'd impetuously given it to him in the middle of their drunken rambling, "in case he ever needed to talk"; he had notably not reciprocated—but he hasn't called it. He knows where she works, and probably when, and he hasn't stopped by. So, his face on screen and print is about all she sees of him.

He looks tired.

Still, like he'd said—so derisively, that night in her flat—she's an optimist. Rose can't help feeling their next meeting is just around the corner, no matter how many days pass with zero contact. The love bites and bruises fade fast, but she still feels the heat of his hands encircling her wrists, the push-pull of their bodies as they lay in her bed.

Call it hope, or stupidity. It doesn't much matter. It gets her through her days.

He hasn't changed anything in her life. It's still shifts at the bar, hobnobbing with old, irascible drunks, taking tips where she can get them. She meets her mum for tea, and the woman asks what she's been up to lately.

"Nothing," Rose answers. "Not a thing."

-

She's in yet another charity shop, looking at the meagre selection of ugly furniture, all with fading upholstery and smelling of stale cigarettes. A few have suspicious stains, and she outright rejects those. 

"Anything you buy, you'll have to wash, of course," Jackie Tyler is chirping, her voice loud and cheerful on the line. Rose has to hold her phone a bit away from her ear, lest the volume of her mum start her on a tension headache. "And I can always sew you a slip-cover. Mind, you'll have to pay me back for the fabric. Or," she continues, suddenly sounding casual, "you could do it yourself, you know. Could even borrow my machine, if you like."

Rose doesn't sigh, but she wants to.

Her mum thinks she’s depressed; she has for the past nine months, actually, but she’s doubled down in the last week. Rose does her best to withstand the constant needling about picking up old hobbies. It’s all, “I think I’ve got your acrylics stored in the closet” and “you can borrow my sewing machine,” and none of it’s remotely helpful. No amount of charcoal sketches and seam ripping can distract Rose from the strange feeling in her gut, the one she gets every time she closes the bar and turns out the lights and leaves, without having seen him.

After hanging up, she buys a couch. It’s an ugly thing, but she’ll think of something.

-

She’s in her mum’s flat, bent over the sewing machine when he calls, her fingers red and swollen from pricking them, the start of a headache building behind her eyes. Her mum has been shoving tea at her like it’s her sole function as a parent, and Rose is beginning to despair of ever finishing this slipcover. She never used to have trouble like this. And then, a ringing phone. A number she doesn’t recognize.

“What?” she says, probably less kindly than she might on any other day.

“Jesus,” Tucker says, because of course. “Who pissed in your breakfast cereal? I can call back, try again—maybe you can give us a ‘hello’ this time, nice and cheerful.”

“Tucker.” She stutters out his name like an expletive, uttered in shock and dismay. The sewing machine jangles into silence, and the piece of fabric she was working on is utterly ruined. “Fuck.”

His laugh is tight. “Been and done, darling. I thought we were past that.”

Her mind has gone frantic, and she scrabbles for something sensible to say. This shouldn’t be difficult. But her brain and the fabric in front of her seem equally tangled and useless. Every time he speaks, she can hear her name on his lips. She knows what he tastes like. She knows the face he makes when he comes. She swallows. “It’s noon, so I hope this isn’t a booty call. Some of us still have jobs, you know.” It comes out harsher than she intended, and she waits for him to hang up on her, or shout, or… something.

“Nope, nothing like that,” he says, voice alarmingly cheerful. “Not that you work Sundays, anyway.” So he _ does _know when she works. Rose grins. “But we’re not talking about you, we’re talking about me: I need a favor.”

“Of course you do,” she sighs, rolling her eyes. She doesn’t know how she’s staying so calm and casual, when she really wants to ask him how he is. Or for him to ask her. Or for anything about this conversation to be normal. “You don’t call, you don’t write…” She pulls out the scissors and begins hacking at fabric like her life depends on it. Anything to distract her from the memories that have suddenly begun to crowd her brain.

“I’m sure you see me plenty on the telly.” He’s a little less cheerful. “More than you’d like, anyway. So, how about that favor?”

She decides to leave the slipcover for another day.

-

The directions Tucker gives her are rather vague, as is the nature of this favor. But she slips on her jacket and tells her mum she’ll be by again tomorrow to finish the sewing. Jackie bids her goodbye, palm over her phone to muffle the continued chatter of one of her friends, and tells her to bundle up warm. “Take a scarf,” she calls. “There’s a storm coming.”

Rose laughs. “Oh, Mum, you’ve got no idea.”

-

When she arrives, Rose looks suspiciously at the park gate, and then surveys the scene before her. The grass is dry and withered from the chilly weather, and the ominous clouds overhead don’t bode well for the children playing on the see-saws and swings. But there’s still a bit of a crowd gathered—mostly beleaguered nannies with prams and mums with diaper bags so giant they look as if they contain multiple dimensions. There are a few children playing; their squeals and chatter echo across the park. It’s an incongruously cheerful scene, when you consider that Malcolm Tucker must be lurking around somewhere.

She feels the hand on her arm before she sees it, and he tugs her away from the main gate, behind the relative cover of some sort of maintenance shed. Truthfully, she wouldn’t recognize Tucker even if she _ had _seen him. He’s wearing a flannel under a sort of blue-grey sweater that makes his eyes look strange and vivid under the desaturated autumnal sky. He’s got a jacket on that looks almost unbelievably casual, and he’s wearing khakis, and what’s more, there’s a scarf hanging around his neck with the sort of ease that can’t possibly be styled. She gapes. “Holy shit,” she hisses. “You’re… you’re dressed like a human being.”

He looks down at himself. “What?” His eyes flick back up to her, already irritated. “What are you on about?”

She gestures to him. “No suit.”

“You saw my cock a week ago, so you know the suit comes off,” he snaps, his lips pinched and the start of a glare making its way onto his face. There are pale shadows under his eyes, desaturated like the autumn sky, and he’s wound tight. She doesn’t dare mention that he was basically fully clothed before, during, and after the sex. A child’s playpark doesn’t seem like the venue for a discussion of his inability to permit intimacy. Tucker shakes his head, but there’s a trace of a smile somewhere as he starts mumbling, “‘No suit,’ she says. Like it’s _ unbelievable _that I own flannel. Christ.”

“I thought the suit was surgically attached!” She doesn’t know why she’s riling him up, but something in her thrills to it, and she keeps going. “Like an exoskeleton or something. Or a disguise, like Clark Kent.” She suddenly imagines his hair longer, styled with a kiss curl. She grins, tongue between her teeth as she holds back a laugh.

“Yeah,” he answers with a roll of his eyes, “I’m fucking Scottish Superman. Are you gonna whitter on all day about my wardrobe choices, or are you gonna help me?”

“Well, it would help to know what, exactly, I’m helping you _ with_,” she reasons.

“Simple. I’m here to pick up my son. You’re gonna help me.”

“What?” she says, much too loudly. Her eyes instantly dart around, searching for cameras. “In _ public? _” Tucker claps a hand over her mouth, and she resists the urge to bite him. But of his own volition, he drops his hand and rubs it over his face.

“I’ve already swept the whole park; how stupid do you think I am? But it’s the first weekend I’m—_allowed _ since…” His voice trails off, and he doesn’t look guilty so much as distant, sort of unfocused. She imagines he’s back in the office at 10 Downing Street, reliving the worst day of his life.

“Since you resigned?” She offers the suggestion diplomatically, but his answering smile contains a wealth of sarcasm.

Offhandedly, “You should go into PR. Yes, since I ‘resigned.’” She can practically _ hear _the air-quotes. But then his expression drops. “My son, he... he was at the house, that day. They both were. She was dropping him off, because it was supposed to be a long weekend, y’know? And then all the cameras showed up, and… well, let’s just say I spoiled the family dinner.”

She still can’t rightly comprehend it. Tucker, with a kid. Tucker, at family dinner. Tucker, in flannel. It’s all slightly unreal, and she suddenly realizes that having a crush on a bitter bloke who comes into your bar isn’t the same as having a relationship with him. She feels completely out of her depth, and mutters, “Why the hell am I _ here_?”

“You’re my body armor.”

“I’m _ what_?”

“You’re here to stay between me and Fiona,” he elaborates. His eyes are a bit wild. “She’s fucking furious that I let Calum get caught up in the press. I always tried to keep things separate, you know—work-life, home-life, and never the twain shall fucking meet. I had a hell of a time keeping any photos of my house, my _ kid _ from being published. Called in favors. Gave blowjobs at the BBC. The whole thing. But it doesn’t matter.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “It scared him. _ I _scared him. And Fiona’s pissed.”

“I’m sorry,” she begins, looking for clarification that she’s terrified to actually receive. “You want me to _ act as a buffer between you and your ex-wife_?” Just saying it sounds mad. She’s a stranger he fucked once. According to him, she’s the one who pours the drinks and gets tips for having her tits out. He doesn’t even know her middle name, or her birthday, or her criminal record. At least, he _ probably _doesn’t know those things. She hisses, “Tucker, have you lost your bleeding mind? I’m not a bullet-proof vest, I’m a bartender.”

“And you’re here now, so you might as well help!”

Her hand extends before she can stop it, pushing an accusing finger into his chest. “You owe me. I don’t know _ what _ yet, but you owe me, and I’m gonna fucking _ collect_, Malcolm Tucker.” She hesitates for a moment, and then pulls off his scarf, wrapping it around her own neck. The scent of aftershave, faint with cinnamon and smoke, surrounds her. “And I’m cold. So, I’m keeping this.”

“Fine,” he huffs. “Can we just go?”

She brushes past him, peeking around the corner of the shed. “Which one is she?” When he snatches her back, she can feel the warmth of his hand through her jacket.

“Furthest bench. Brown hair. White coat.” His voice is brusque, like he’s describing a perfect stranger. He could be speaking about anyone, so flat is his tone. It’s only because she’s so close that Rose can see the current of tension in his brow, the faint twitch of his mouth. She sets her jaw and moves, turning the corner of the shed before Tucker can stop her. It’s only once she’s begun to walk toward the playground that she turns back to see if he’s followed.

If she hadn’t looked, she might not have seen him—gingerly, subtly—removing his wedding band. He slides it into his pocket, and her stomach twists.

-

Rose enters the soft-topped playground with Tucker on her heels, and she’s still unsure about the best plan of attack, about what she should say. If she should say _ anything_, really. Should she wait for Tucker to introduce them? Or should she introduce herself? For a moment, she sees it playing out like a film: Her arm, outstretched. Her mouth, forming the words. “Hello, Mrs. Tucker. My name’s Rose. I’ve fucked your husband.” It gives her a vicious sense of triumph, of pride, but that quickly settles as a sour feeling in her stomach. This woman isn’t Mrs. Tucker anymore. And Rose herself has less than no claim on the man who—for some unknown reason—still wears his wedding ring. She shakes off the thought, and has already begun speaking before she can precisely identify what she’s saying.

“Hello,” she says, approaching the woman in the white coat. “Sorry to bother you. I’m Rose. Tucker’s friend.” She doesn’t miss the sharp rise in the sculpted eyebrows, or the amusement in the lovely, rounded lips. The woman looks at her briefly, a passing glance. She feels like a channel on telly, observed and found wanting before being skipped over. The woman already has her eyes on her former husband.

“Really?” she says, very much not to Rose. “I didn’t know Tucker had friends.”

“Maybe ‘friends’ is overstating it,” Rose admits. The words can’t be stopped, she’s simply acting on reflex. “But I know how he takes his scotch, so that’s got to count for something.” She feels that her own smile is limp, but the woman is finally looking at her, _ seeing _her. And her answering, red-lipped smile is genuine.

“I suppose it must.”

Rose exhales.

“Hey, Fi,” Tucker greets, casual as anything. He moves around Rose, to the bench, where he sits. He’s left space in the middle, but not much, and Rose abruptly wonders what she’s supposed to do. She doesn’t exactly want to end up in his lap, but isn’t the whole point of this exercise keeping her _ between _ the two of them? Tucker arches a brow and tilts his head to the side, toward the open spot. “Sit.”

“Don’t mind him,” Fiona suddenly says. “He’s used to barking orders. Please, Rose, sit if you like.” Her visible shift creates enough of an opening, space for Rose to comfortably sit. Between them.

She moves just as there’s a sudden squeal across the playground. A very high, piping voice, screaming, “Daddy!” with just the barest hint of a lilt, familiar in its cadence.

Until this moment, she realizes, she didn’t really believe in Tucker’s child. He’d been an abstraction. An excuse being used. A piece of baggage in that crammed-full cargo plane of Tucker’s psyche. But then she twists in time to see Tucker rising in her periphery, and a small body flying across the playground. It’s indistinct, a blur, a mess of wavy brown hair and green stripes, and she feels herself tensing at his uneven gait. He looks like he’s seconds from tripping, or at the very least, careening directly into Tucker’s kneecaps, but he’s suddenly swept into the air by two arms. She’s too dazed to focus on much—just the hands, strong and capable. There’s more squealing as the little boy is carried off toward the swings.

Tucker laughs.

Rose feels it like a shockwave. A strange, indescribable feeling that forces her to look away. _ I’m intruding, _she thinks, as her eyes slide back to the mother of Tucker’s child, who is currently looking directly at her, and smiling. Still, that perfect, honest smile. “I know,” she says.

“I can go,” Rose croaks.

The woman is airy and unconcerned. “No need. Really, sit. He’ll be a little.”

Not seeing any other choice, Rose sits. Her eyes keep dragging back to Tucker and his son, almost against her will. The overcast sky is dull and thick, and the two figures stand out against it, too bright and alive not to catch the eye. The silence between the two women seems to expand, and Rose finds herself tapping her hands on her knees to fill the void in the conversation. Her fingers are cold, and beginning to turn pink.

"The first time he held our son," the older woman says, apropos of nothing, "he actually cried. I'd never seen him cry before—not when his dad died, or when he found out I was pregnant, or when we got married—but there were tears in his eyes, when he looked down at our baby. I thought, maybe he'd been right. Maybe this would fix it all—the job, the marriage, the world." Her eyes shift to Rose, and she gives a coy smile. "It didn't fix anything at all, but I'm glad all the same. Calum is the only one who ever makes him look like that." A pause, another glance. "Well, usually."

Rose doesn't know what to say, so she says nothing, letting the sounds of children playing fill up the gap in the conversation. When she can’t bear it any longer, she admits, “He made it seem like you two were fighting.”

“Oh, everything’s a fight with Malcolm,” Fiona replies, shrugging easily. Though she’s looking directly at Tucker, her expression is unreadable. She looks like she’s just out of her thirties, no more than forty five, with that sort of quiet comfort in her body that can only come with time. Everything about her is relaxed, from the curve of her lips to her slender hands, delicately folded on top of her handbag. “And of course, I _ am _furious with him.”

Rose glances at Tucker, and then back to the placid woman beside her. “Right.”

“Calum was terrified. He thought it was a horde of zombies, taking over London.” Her eyes shift to Rose again, a faint sparkle of amusement lighting them from within. “That’s what Malcolm calls the press, at home. Zombies.” _ At home. _Rose’s stomach knots itself, and she nods. “He’s had nightmares all week.”

“That’s awful,” she answers, her gaze once again drawn to Tucker, who is now crouched in the middle of the playground, listening while his son explains something very seriously. Every few seconds he nods, but he can’t quite hide the smile that tugs his lips. It’s the happiest she’s ever seen him look, not that that’s surprising. She’s only ever seen him after long days of putting out political fires, usually with a shot glass in hand. “Tucker feels terrible about it.”

Fiona snorts. “Yes, well, he didn’t feel terrible when he scuttled off to the pub that night. He didn’t come home until next morning, can you believe? I ended up leaving, taking Calum back to the house once the press died down, and he missed a weekend with his Dad.”

Rose _ can _ believe. She wishes the earth would swallow her up and rid her of this feeling in her gut. Instead she says, "That's dreadful." Her voice is not her own. It's wooden and flavorless in her mouth.

"He's been avoiding me ever since," the woman continues, unperturbed. Rose can suddenly feel the bite of his wedding ring as his hands dig into her hips, and a buzzing begins in her ears. _ Shit. Fuck. Shitfuck. _ "Rose?"

"Hm?" 

"I asked how you know Malcolm."

_ Lie, _ she thinks, frantically searching for something suitable. She isn't posh or respectable, so it can't be from work. And she knows little to nothing about Tucker's hobbies and interests—not how he takes his coffee, or whether or not he golfs. All of it is a mystery to her, and she can't summon a convincing lie to save her life. What she _ does _know is how many shots it takes before his speech starts to slur, and what his tongue feels like on her cli—

"I'm a bartender," she blurts out. "And it's my fault he, well…" She's already begun to wince when Fiona laughs. It's a husky, warm sound, and the hand that drops to touch hers is warm, too.

"You can hardly be blamed, Rose. Malcolm always does precisely what he wants to." Her eyebrows arch delicately, hand retreating back to her lap. Her manicure is flawless. "As I'm sure you know."

She shouldn't be relieved. Really, she shouldn't crave this woman's acceptance at all. But there's something about Fiona's quiet dignity that makes Rose feel like a teenager again, so she laughs and tries to conceal her blush. "I do, actually. I tried to cut him off once, at last call, and he just… _ laughed _ at me. Somehow I ended up staying three hours past time, still serving him drinks." She shakes her head wonderingly, while Tucker guides his son down a slide. "No idea how he does it."

"Ah, that old trick. Believe me, I'm familiar."

"Yeah?"

"Oh, very." Fiona's smile suddenly seems a bit brighter, almost sharp. If it weren't for the way her gaze hawkishly follows Tucker's every move, Rose might call it affectionate. But it isn't. "We could use that man's defense mechanisms to secure every border in the whole of Europe. I spent nine years trying to get his guard down, you know, and I'm still not sure I ever managed it. Only ever got as far as his fly."

This is a test, but Rose doesn't notice until she's already swallowed thickly, averted her gaze, done just about every obvious thing she could possibly do. "Really."

She sees Fiona's scythe-sharp smile out of the corner of her eye. "Maybe you'll get further than I did."

Earnest, she turns to face Tucker's ex. "I doubt that _ very _ much." She wants to say more. She wants to say she isn't a threat to her, or to them, or to–God forbid—their son. She wishes she'd never come. She wishes, and she sits, her fists clenched in her lap while Fiona, font of patience and poise, smiles at her.

"If you do, Rose," Fiona says, very softly, "he'll be worth it. But I don't think you ought to waste your life trying. You're still so young, and much too kind."

"Mummy!"

The jubilant voice is what breaks them apart, pushes them back to their respective positions on the bench. Rose tries to control the shaking in her hands, from chill and nerves, by shoving them firmly into her pockets. The flannel lining is warm and comforting, and she takes a deep breath.

Tucker's son is rushing their way, his feet catching on the wood chips and kicking up a spray, like sand on a beach. "Mummy," he repeats urgently, "Da says I can have ice cream."

"Did he?" Fiona asks, voice suddenly as thick and warm as butter melting on toast. Her eyes light up. She is, Rose thinks, almost distractingly beautiful, and she once again feels like an intruder.

"He did." The little boy nods emphatically, and turns back to Tucker for reassurance. "Da, tell her. Tell her what you said." His fingers are still thick and clumsy with baby fat, but they grip very insistently at his father's sleeve. But his father's attention is currently diverted. She feels Tucker’s eyes like a hand on her body.

"Alright, Rose?"

She nods, looks casual. "What's this about ice cream?" 

When Calum Tucker turns his eyes on her, noticing her for the first time, Rose wants to laugh, because they're not _ his _ eyes at all. They're the same serious, sharp blue ones that have looked at her over a bar dozens of times. A sight less wrinkled around the corners, more curious than cold, but fundamentally the same.

"Who are you?" Calum asks politely.

"I'm Rose." She sticks out her hand to shake. "Rose Tyler."

The boy looks at her hand for only a second before firmly grasping it, and giving a shake that's almost preternaturally strong. "I'm Calum Tucker."

Rose's grin widens. He could be presiding over a cabinet meeting, he's so serious. "It's nice to meet you, Calum."

"S'nice to meet you, too. Are you a friend of Mum's?" She’s still taken aback by the slightest trace of his lilt, barely even there. She imagines it'll disappear as he grows, but at present, he sounds so similar to his father.

"Your dad's, actually." Talking about Tucker indirectly suddenly reminds her that she's being observed, and Rose's cheeks flush when she looks up. The man himself is viewing the exchange with a wisp of a smile, which grows when she meets his eye.

Calum Tucker seems to ponder this for another moment. Rose doesn't know whether a child no more than seven is usually this contemplative, or if it's a unique feature of being raised by these specific parents. At six, she was closer to a bear cub than the child standing before her. But eventually, Calum says, "Da doesn't have girl friends. So you must be Mum's."

Trying not to laugh, she nods, "Alright."

"D'you like ice cream? I can buy you some. Well, my dad can." He looks up at his father for reassurance once again, and Tucker smiles down at him with unutterable fondness. "Can we all have ice cream?" 

"None for me, unfortunately," Fiona declares, already standing up. She is unrumpled, but she still runs her hands down her coat. Rose suddenly notices that Fiona's in a dress and heels and looks like she's been at a cocktail party rather than a children's play park. Her own scuffed trainers and faded denims suddenly feel even dumpier than before. The woman adds, "I have a meeting to get to. But you all should go!" She gives Rose a quick smile. "Have a scoop for me, will you?"

"With extra fudge," she agrees, trying for a smile of her own.

"Perfect." And then, with a flurry of goodbyes and a kiss to her son's flushed pink cheek, she's leaving. It's so delicate, so smooth, that Rose hardly notices Tucker going unacknowledged, except for one small, brittle smile. Fiona turns, looks over her shoulder. Her smile is brighter, no less warm for the blood red lips. “By the way, Rose—love the scarf.”

-

The drive to the ice cream shop is calm and quiet, and Rose finds herself at a complete loss. For starters, she's in Tucker's car, and it's this eerily tidy little compact, pristine but for a booster seat in the back and one rear pocket stuffed with board books and, notably, a few Batman comics, one of which Calum promptly pulls out and begins to look at. He flips absently between pages, pausing on particularly colorful panels and studying them.

Tucker's got some sort of talk radio on, a channel Rose would never think to listen to, and it fills in the silence nicely. But that doesn't stop it from building between them, moment by uncomfortable moment.

It's Calum who breaks it. "Da," he begins, "does Mum's friend know about Batman?"

"Her name's Rose, and I don't know." Tucker's eyes slant away from the rearview, catching on Rose before returning to the road. He lowers the volume on the radio. "You should ask her."

There's no hesitation. "Rose, d'you know about Batman?"

She turns her head, peeks over the seat shoulder. The face that meets hers is bright and hopeful, brown hair sticking out in every direction. The comic is spread out in his lap like a holy tome. "Mhm," she nods. "One of my mates—he's called Mickey—loves comics. He's got loads. Superman's his favorite, but I always thought Batman looked coolest."

"Yeah," Calum agrees, "me too. He's got the _ best _ car. Wanna see?" 

"Sure."

He flips the comic 'round so she can see. It's upside-down, but she gets the general idea. "That's a great car," she agrees seriously. "I wonder how fast it goes."

"Fast enough to catch the bad guys," she is enthusiastically informed. "It also flies. I think. Prob'ly."

"I wish _ this _ car could fly," Rose says absently. "We'd get to the ice cream shop faster."

Tucker snorts. "I'm already speeding as it is; what more d'you want?"

"Mummy says Da's a speed demon," Calum explains to the car at large.

"Does she?" Tucker asks as Rose snorts into her hand. "Well, next time one of us needs to come get you, we'll race, alright? And we'll see who gets there first."

His son giggles, a bubbling sound that makes Rose's chest constrict. "Alright!"

To Rose's continued surprise, the three of them spend the rest of the ride amiably chatting about the various accoutrements of the Batmobile. Every now and then, Tucker catches her eye, and her heart stalls in her chest.

_ Fuck. _

-

Parking is a nightmare, so Tucker deposits Rose and Calum at the kerb. "Just join the queue and I'll catch up," he calls, before rolling the window up and un-clogging the flow of London traffic.

Unsure of herself, she offers the little boy her hand, but he takes it like it's nothing and practically drags her into the shop. His enthusiasm is catching, and she finds herself bouncing on her toes as they stand in line. "What kind are you getting?" she whispers, conspiratorial.

"I'm getting two scoops," Calum says, eyes glued to the menu. "Choc'late and peanut butter swirl, one scoop each." 

Rose eyes his little cherub face, which is surreptitiously turned away from her at present. "Does your dad normally let you get two scoops?" 

"Yeah," the boy answers, eyes continuing to skirt hers. But then, as if propelled by some force he doesn't understand, he meets her eye and gives an embarrassed giggle. "No."

Rose grins. He's such a strange mix of charm and sincerity, with those wide eyes and matter-of-fact tone. She'd think a child of Tucker's would know how to lie better, but this one seems to dislike the practice, even if it gets him what he wants. 

She absently wonders what Tucker was like as a child.

"S'alright," she says, squeezing Calum’s hand. "I won't tell."

-

"Does anyone call you 'Cal'?" Rose asks as they find a seat. Tucker is still nowhere to be found, but at Calum's instruction, she'd ordered him lemon sherbet.

("Lemon? Are you sure?"

"Mhm. Da likes sour things, like raspberries. I _ hate _raspberries."

Rose had grinned. "Noted.")

"No," he answers. He sits on his knees, which have grass-stains on them, peering over the edge of the booth. Rose is amused by each hopeful glance, accompanied by the jangle of door chimes. She can't help but be fond of the child who is, for some inexplicable reason, sitting on her side of the booth, still holding her hand even as his body leans the opposite direction. 

One hand holds his cone, but the other is firmly glued to hers. Warm and sticky, it reminds her of summer picnics with distant cousins and a childhood that feels, just now, impossibly distant.

"Well," Calum amends, "my friends at school. But no grown-ups." He glances briefly over his shoulder at her, and offers, "You can, if you want."

"Thank you! I think I will."

“Rose! Da’s coming!” 

The declaration is made with such enthusiasm that Rose can’t help turning to look where Cal is eagerly pointing. Her arm and chin propped on the top of the booth, the pair share a conspiratorial grin before Tucker can even push open the door, and Rose dramatically huffs, “_Finally!_” as the welcoming bells chime.

Tucker seems confused by the attentiveness of his welcoming committee. He catches Rose’s eye and prompts, “What?”

Rose’s smile expands. His look is wide and blue and open, and she gives a helpless shrug. “You were gone _ ages_.”

“Ages!” Cal echoes, loud but giggling.

“Well, complain to the man who opened the bl—” he catches himself, “an ice cream shop in central London! And anyway, how could I know that there are this many people mad enough to get ice cream in the middle of autumn?” Tucker grumbles all of this while settling into the booth, across from Rose and Cal (the latter of which still won’t relinquish her hand, enthusiasm for Da’s appearance notwithstanding). But when he sees his card paper cup full of ice cream, he laughs delightedly, and his smile is still wide when he looks up at Rose. “Did he tell you to get lemon?”

Rose can’t breathe, or respond properly, so strange and suffused with light is the expression on Malcolm Tucker’s face. A week ago, he’d walked out her door with her fingermarks raked down his back and not a second glance, and now she’s sitting in an ice cream parlor with him and his _ child _ , who is holding her hand like it belongs to him personally, and he’s smiling at her like he’s known her his whole life. Like he hadn’t poured his heart out all over her hardwood floor, fucked her senseless, and then _ left. _

She swallows, and nods. Tries for levity. She also tries to look away from him, lest she gets caught up in whatever fucked up magnetism he has going. “I was informed it was your favorite. I should’ve guessed.”

“Because I’m so bitter?”

“Something like that.”

It’s only when she feels a cold drip on her hand that she realizes she hasn’t touched her ice cream, and she’s suddenly very involved with licking off the offending sweetness and forcefully ignoring the eye contact that Tucker seems hell-bent on initiating. Her tongue traces up her wrist and thumb, and she tries to do it without making a mess, but she’s not sure she’s succeeding. Really, she feels juvenile.

“Vanilla?”

Rose looks up despite herself. “You sound disappointed.”

“No,” he answers, studying his spoon. It's balanced delicately in his hand, from which his wedding ring is conspicuously still absent. “Not at all. Vanilla is… good.” And then he’s _ smiling _at her again, like he can hardly help it; it's just twitching cheerfully at the corners of his mouth.

“Da?” Calum’s voice is the distraction she needs, and she finds herself grateful for the sticky hand in hers. “Da, you shouldn’t stare. S’rude.”

Tucker’s eyebrows practically launch into his hairline, and his gaze redirects to Calum, who is matter-of-factly slurping on his double-stacked cone. Rose has no idea how his melty ice cream isn’t everywhere yet. He stops eating again to add, “Mum says staring at pretty girls makes them uncomf’table.”

“Oh, I’m pretty, am I?” Rose laughs. “Thanks, Cal.”

“I’m _ not _ staring at her!” Tucker protests over her. “Hold on, ‘Cal’? What’s this? ‘Cal.’ Nobody calls you Cal—you _ hate _being called Cal.”

Calum finally releases her hand, but only so he can get down to the important business of stabilizing his rapidly-diminishing ice cream cone. “My friends call me it, sometimes, and since you and Mum can’t decide, Rose’ll be my friend.”

-

After they’re done with their cones and conversation, Tucker goes to get the car and bring it around, just like before. He doesn’t say it’s because of the paparazzi, and he doesn’t have to. He simply leaves Rose to contentedly people-watch and talk to his son, who seems to have taken to her like a fish to water. As far as she can tell, Cal doesn’t notice the slapdash, hastily-constructed answers to his questions about Batman, or how she draws from real life when he asks about supervillains. At one point, he seriously asks, “Would Batman beat a zombie horde?” 

She’s not sure he knows what a horde is, but given what Fiona had told her about his nightmares, she hastily answers, “Oh, yes. Definitely. Zombies aren’t that scary, really. Just annoying.” He seems relieved.

Once they’ve finished, the pair of them wait for Tucker on the pavement, hand in hand. The whole ordeal of leaving takes longer than it should, because Rose’s fingers fumble with the straps and the carseat. “S’alright,” Calum insists. “I’m big enough to do it myself.” But Rose gets it eventually, and huffs a sigh of relief as she slides into the passenger seat.

“Bloody complicated,” she mutters.

Tucker snorts. “Language, Miss Tyler.”

She very nearly laughs.

From the back seat, Cal pipes up: “Are you coming home with us, Rose? You _ have _ to see my Batman comics. My dad got me a whole bunch—can she, Da? Please?”

“Sorry, Cal,” Rose finds herself saying, with genuine remorse. “Your dad has to take me home so I can get some work done. But maybe next weekend, alright?” She’s not sure where the suggestion comes from, only that she knows she has to signal something to Tucker. They’ve been together for the better part of an afternoon, but have barely communicated outside of half-formed innuendos and skittery eye contact.

_ I want to see you again, _she wants to say. Instead, she says, “I can come by and check out your comics then, maybe. I could even bring you some—I mean, if your dad says that’s okay.”

Tucker eyes her, and she can’t exactly read the look he’s giving. He’s doing that _ thing _ where his mouth is pressed tight and his eyes are wide and it looks like he’s either smiling or screaming on the inside. She starts chewing her lip, because fucking hell, she can’t _ tell. _

“That’s just fine,” he replies, finally. The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly.

The breath whooshes out of her, and she suddenly feels a bit light-headed. She grins at him, giddy. “It’s a date.”


End file.
